


The Power of Words

by Rickey



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Epistolary, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-02
Updated: 2011-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:50:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rickey/pseuds/Rickey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words hold amazing power, even more so when they appear on your skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Power of Words

**Author's Note:**

> Profuse thanks to absynthedrinker for being such a speedy and lovely beta.
> 
> Originally posted for 2011 hp_kinkfest for a most excellent prompt for epistolary (writing on skin) by bonfoi.

The first time it happens, Harry thinks he's drunk far too much of the new Dragonfire Ale that his mates insist upon buying flaming pint after flaming pint. His wrist tingles over his pulse point and he looks to see if he's spilt any of the ale on it.

For the briefest moment he sees _I wish I could tell you_ in an exceptionally neat script. Harry closes his eyes and shakes his head. When he opens his eyes, the writing is gone, but the odd tingling remains. He looks at each one of his mates in turn and then scans the crowd for any sign of, well, anything. Turning his hand over, Harry examines the faint scars that remain of Umbridge's wrath. He feels no pain and decides that he must have imagined it, so he listens with the rest of his mates to Seamus telling a story about Veelas living in Tuscany.

***

 

The second time it happens, Harry's sitting up in bed reading the latest Quidditch results. The Arrows are most definitely the team to beat this year. He feels a strange prickling sensation on his belly. He lifts his pyjama top and gasps when he sees the writing. The elegant script reads: _There is so much I would tell you,_

Harry blinks and knows with unflinching certainty that he is _not_ imagining it. A few seconds pass and the writing fades. Slowly, new words appear one by one over the skin beneath his navel: _but I'm a coward._

Memories of Umbridge's detention flood to the forefront of Harry's mind, but this message is in black, looking like ink, not blood, and he feels no pain. On the contrary, the sensation is pleasant, despite the confusion that looms. Is someone trying to communicate with him? Who?

The words change again. Each line appears for several seconds before fading into his skin and is replaced with another, all in the same refined hand.

 _I watch you._

 _You're lovely._

 _I want you._

Harry's breath hitches and his cock stirs as he reads the words. It's been a long time since anyone has said such things to him. Since ending things with Ginny, there has been no one. He's been too afraid to pursue any of the men that he's been attracted to.

 _I wish I could touch you._

It is impossible to suppress the urge to reach for his rapidly swelling cock. Harry pushes down the waistband of his pyjamas until his prick springs free. The head touches the line of script and leaks a small drop of pre-come. The oddity of it is that Harry feels as if the thin clear strand that forms is a connection between he and the writer.

 _I wish I could tell you what I truly feel,_

 _but I doubt you'd believe me._

 _I've never given you any reason to._

Pulling desperately on his cock, Harry feels the raw need, urgent and undeniable, building up inside him. He yearns to close his eyes and surrender to the pleasure, but he doesn't want to stop reading the messages. He should be frightened, but instead he feels great comfort and security. He feels wanted.

 _I admire you._

 _I admire your strength._

 _I desire you._

 _I want you._

The messages stop. Keeping watch on his stomach, Harry waits for more as he languidly strokes his cock, keeping his climax at bay. After a minute or two, he senses that no more messages are forthcoming, but the sensation, perhaps the magic, lingers on his skin. He throws his head back and wanks in a frenzy. He wonders if the writer can feel him, or is aware of what the messages have done to him. Harry's entire body shudders as he comes hard in his fist. The experience is so fast, and strange, and to Harry's amazement, erotic.

***

 

"The Quick Quills Company doesn't have any quills that will write on skin. I also checked with George and there are no Wheezes products like that either," Harry tells Hermione. "So I'm thinking that it has to be personal spell work. Are you sure you haven't heard of anything?"

"I told you, no. The closest thing I've ever heard of is Umbridge's—"

"It wasn't like that," Harry says defensively. "It wasn't Dark or painful. No discomfort at all. It felt… good."

"Okay. Okay," she says. "I suppose it could be some sort of love potion or spell, but I've never heard of anything like it. Probably some lovesick Romilda Vane-a-like has her eyes on you."

"It's a man."

"That sounds like wishful thinking to me."

"I know it is. I can feel it."

"Love potions and spells are quite complex. They can mask and twist your feelings along with your perspective on reality."

"So you'll research it for me?" Harry asks, knowing she won't be able to resist the mystery.

"It's rather intriguing. I can't quite see how they've connected the spell to you. You didn't see anyone at the bar with their wand trained on you? No one took your glass or plucked a hair?"

"I told you already, no. That's why I thought it might be one of the lads taking the piss."

"And you didn't think to cast a Trace Charm?" Hermione asks as she narrows her eyes at him.

Harry shakes his head. He's learned at least four different ways to trace or identify magical sources since he began Auror training, but he's not about to tell Hermione why he was too distracted to perform one. "I don't think it would do any good," he says.

"Well, you won't know if you don't try."

"I promise to do one the next time it happens."

"If it happens again," she corrects.

"When. It will. I can feel it."

She eyes him suspiciously. "I'll see what I can find."

He hugs her goodbye, feeling a little guilty that he hasn't told her the whole story.

 

***

Harry spends the next three nights staying up late, forcing himself to stay awake past midnight in hopes that he'll get another message. On the fourth night, he finally feels that odd tingling as he's brushing his teeth. This time it's on his inner right thigh. He spits out his toothpaste and hurries to his bed, releasing the drawstring of his pyjama bottoms on the way. He steps out of his pyjamas and grabs his wand from the bedside table.

 _I can't stop thinking about you._

"I can't stop thinking about you either," Harry says as he stares at the now familiar handwriting that has appeared on his skin. He smoothes his hand over the line of ink and isn't surprised that it doesn't smudge. It's not ink. The spell merely colors his skin.

 _I want to stop. I can't._

 _Everything about you reminds me of my failures,_

 _and yet, I still want you._

Harry casts three different spells to try and trace the magic. His efforts yield nothing. A fourth spell only detects his own magic. It's as if he's doing it to himself. Could it be his imagination after all? Wishful thinking? It can't be. Most assuredly, he senses the presence of another, a man, a man who wants him.

 _You could never_

Harry is left on pins and needles wondering about what he could never do. It is beyond frustration when the messages stop. He waits up for hours, but no more words come. His body is tense with unfulfilled anticipation. He decides to take a shower in an attempt to relax.

The warm water helps to loosen his tight muscles. He soaps his hand and reaches for his cock. With fascination, he watches as it hardens in his hand. He's done this a million times. Why should tonight feel so different? He imagines that his secret admirer can see him and even feel the sensation of what their connection is doing to him. Wild with desire to come for the other man, Harry works his cock over with a firm and fast moving grip. He bangs the back of his head on the tiles as his orgasm takes command of his body.

"Who are you?" Harry says to the steamed up mirror as he steps out of the shower. There is no reply.

***

A week passes without a message, and Harry fears that his admirer may have given up. His despondency is further fueled when Hermione's search yields nothing regarding charming quills to write messages on remote locations. All she has found is that it is usually the objects: parchment, journals, or even slates that are charmed as a means to communicate. She talks about the Protean Charm she used on the Dumbledore's Army Galleons, and Harry tunes her out as they walk down Diagon Alley. It all feels so hopeless.

Then in an instant, it all changes. Draco Malfoy walks towards them. He spares a fleeting glance for Harry, but quickly diverts his attention off into the distance. Harry watches Malfoy turn the corner. It all happens in less than a minute. Hermione is still droning on about secret message spellwork. Harry doubts she even noticed Malfoy pass by.

There is a strong buzzing in Harry's ears, and then clarity beckons.

"It's Malfoy."

"What's Malfoy?" She stops walking and waits for Harry's reply.

"Malfoy is sending me those messages."

"You always think it's Malfoy." She rolls her eyes and starts walking.

He runs after her. "But I was right."

She stops and turns to him. Her face seems contemplative. "You have been right about him, but you've also been wrong."

"I'm not wrong this time. I feel it. I know it."

"Oh, God," she says, looking mortified. "You want it to be Malfoy."

Harry can feel the heat rise from his neck to his face. He's certain he's blushing twelve shades of red. "I…"

"You do." Hermione looks around and makes sure no one is in earshot. She lowers her voice to a whisper. "There's something you're not telling me."

"Sorry."

"You can't tell me?"

"Maybe, once it's all sorted." This is something he has to do alone.

She nods at him with her bottom lip protruding in a half-pout. He gives her a peck on the cheek.

"Thanks, for your help, but now I know what I have to do," Harry says, backing away from her.

"You're playing with fire, Harry. What if you're wrong?"

"I'm not." He is certain. It's Malfoy sending him those messages, and he's far more scared that Malfoy might never send them again, than he is that it's Malfoy. He gives Hermione one last smile and then spins to Disapparate.

***

 

Harry's faith in his instincts are rewarded that evening with a new message. The writing this time appears on his left thigh.

 _I saw you today._

Harry's heart beats wildly at the confirmation, but the next line tapers his excitement.

 _You are disgusted by me._

"No," Harry says, shaking his head.

 _By every measure, I am inadequate._

Harry rushes to his desk and rummages around for a quill and unused piece of parchment. He knocks over a bottle of ink in his haste and has to open a new one. Hastily, he scratches out a message. The small missive is covered with ink blotches. It will have to do. He feels renewed tingling on his thigh and looks down.

 _Still, I can't stop thinking about you._

 _I can't stop imagining what I want to do to you, or rather_

 _what I want you to do to me._

Harry is painfully hard, but he manages to run down the flight of stairs without tripping and gives the note to his owl, Gertie. "Get this to Draco Malfoy as fast as you can fly."

As she takes off out the window, Harry realizes that he is past the point of no return. Whatever this is, he's going to pursue it. To what end, he has no idea, but his need and desire have banished caution or sense of reason.

The next words cause Harry's knees to turn spongy and he collapses to the floor.  
 _I want to suck you. I want you to suck me._

Malfoy has never been so explicit. The suggestion is intoxicating. Harry wants to reach for his cock, but he desperately wants to wait for Malfoy.

 _I want you to fuck me. I want you so deep inside me that_

Harry stops reading and rushes back upstairs. He winces from the pressure in his groin he feels with each step. He turns the shower taps on as cold as they will go. He peels off his pyjama top – the only piece of clothing he has on – and steps under the freezing stream. He cries out a litany of foul language as the cold water immediately has the effect that he wanted. The writing continues on his thigh, but he doesn't dare look. Mercifully, after a few minutes the writing stops, and Harry is able to dry off and get dressed.

Gertrude returns without a reply, but then Harry hadn't expected one. He had simply given Malfoy his address at Grimmauld place and said to come, now. The fact that Gertrude has returned before Malfoy is discouraging. Perhaps Malfoy won't come. Harry second guesses his abruptness and thinks that he should have explained things better, but at the time he was in no shape to put together a cohesive thought. Maybe he should have waited. Harry is lost in a myriad of fear and doubt, when the doorbell chimes.

On the top step, is a confused and nervous looking Draco Malfoy. It isn't what Harry expected. He had guessed, or at least had hoped, that Malfoy would look happy, excited, or at least relieved.

"You got my message," Harry says, and instantly feels like an idiot. Of course he did. "Come in. Come in."

After a brief moment of hesitation, Malfoy enters. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

"Why…" Malfoy looks at him, really looks at him, and perhaps for the first time in their lives they take a moment to think about what they're each seeing.

"I don't understand why you asked to see me," Malfoy stammers, breaking the spell.

"Your messages. I know. I know they're from you."

Malfoy looks utterly perplexed, but Harry knows deep in his bones that he isn't mistaken.

"I'm not angry," Harry quickly adds, hoping to put Malfoy at ease. "The opposite actually. I'd hoped we could talk."

Malfoy stares at him oddly. Is it shock? Fear?

"The messages," Harry says with emphasis, as if those two words should open the curtain of confusion that hangs between them.

There's a glaze to Malfoy's eyes that makes Harry question everything he's feeling. He's going to have to show him to make him believe.

Harry turns his wrist over and gently rubs at his pulse point with two fingers. "Here," he says in a hush. Malfoy's staring at him with such intensity that it makes Harry's voice crack as he says, "and here." Harry lifts his t-shirt, exposing his stomach. Slowly, he moves his hand over the skin where the words of desire had appeared.

Malfoy's gasp causes Harry to look up. Keeping Malfoy's gaze, Harry taps on the inside of his denim-clad thigh. "And here."

"I… I… didn't…" Mafloy is panic-stricken.

"You did. I know you did," Harry says desperately, trying to keep his voice calm so as not to spook Malfoy.

"I…"

"What? Please tell me?"

It's obvious that Malfoy is struggling to compose himself. The last thing Harry wants is to scare him.

"It's alright. You can tell me," Harry says, hoping his tone conveys that the feeling is mutual. A cloistering silence stretches between them.

"What did you see?" Malfoy finally asks.

"Your messages." Harry musters all the courage he can, and decides there's no point in holding back. "You want me."

"I didn't—"

"And I want you, too," Harry says, quickly before Malfoy can make up an excuse. "I know it's crazy, but—"

Malfoy cuts him off with a kiss that almost knocks Harry to the ground. As it is, Harry finds himself being pushed against the closest wall. Malfoy's breaths come in hot short pants into Harry's mouth. It's as if he's breathing life right into Harry.

Everything begins to happen as if time has been sped up. They're pulling at each other's clothes, as they reach for the closest bit of skin that they can touch, caress, or lick. Harry's dizzy with want, and so hard that the fear of embarrassing himself creeps into the back of his mind. He needn't have worried, because in no time, Harry has Malfoy's dick in his fist and Malfoy is wildly thrusting up into it. Malfoy comes with a deep and guttural moan that flows like electricity down Harry's spine. With raw animal need, Harry frots against Malfoy's sweaty hip and comes a moment later.

The post orgasmic haze is the strangest mix of euphoria and loss. Harry's not sure what to make of it. He uses his t-shirt to wipe them clean, but only manages to spread the mess. Malfoy laughs. It's easy and affable. He retrieves his wand from his cloak pocket and casts a Cleaning Charm.

With a nervous smile, Harry takes Malfoy by the hand and leads him, mercifully without protest or comment, up to the bedroom.

Harry guides Malfoy to the bed. "Just a sec," he says, and goes to his desk to grab a quill. "Will you show me?"

"Show you?" Malfoy asks, staring at the quill.

"The spell. How you did it? I haven't been able to figure it out."

"It wasn't a spell."

"No?"

"Up until ten minutes ago, I didn't even know that… I was writing the words on my own skin. To myself. I thought it would help. I couldn't tell anyone. I used my wand."

Malfoy holds up his wand. It's the Hawthorn wand that Harry had returned several months ago. He remembers how it simply felt like it was something he should do.

"You used your wand to write?"

"I traced the words on my own skin. I needed to get them out somehow, but I couldn't tell anyone. I couldn't even say them aloud."

Harry's throat closes up on him. "But you meant me," he croaks out, unsure.

"Of course I meant you." Malfoy blushes, and Harry decides that it's the most brilliant shade of pink he's ever seen.

Tossing the quill over his shoulder, Harry joins Malfoy on the bed. "Show me."

"Why?"

"Because I liked it." Harry smiles, and then adds, "A lot."

Malfoy bends his knee and tilts his right leg outward so that he can write on his thigh. Harry watches Malfoy trace the letters of his name against the pale expanse of skin. There is no discoloration on Malfoy's skin. The moment Malfoy withdraws his wand from the surface, the letters appear in black on Harry's thigh.

 _Harry_

Malfoy's breath hitches at the sight of it. "Does it hurt?"

"No. It feels fantastic," Harry says, knowing that his cock his swelling. He's not embarrassed, not after what had just happened downstairs, not with what's happening between them now.

Extending his arm, Malfoy draws an invisible a line from his wrist to his elbow. Nothing happens to Harry's skin. "Hmm," Malfoy says.

"I guess you have to say something."

Malfoy writes more words on his thigh, but Harry is unable to discern what they are. When nothing happens on his own skin, Harry asks, "What did you write?"

"The grass is green. I suppose it has to be something more meaningful."

"Or more heartfelt," Harry suggests, pinning Malfoy with his gaze.

Malfoy writes on his thigh again and a moment later Harry is writhing from the pleasure of both the words and their intent.

 _I want to suck you._

"Please," Harry says. His cock certainly approves of the suggestion, and it strains leaning towards Malfoy.

Malfoy hands his wand to Harry as he maneuvers between Harry's legs. He balances on one hand and captures Harry's prick with the other. The first swipe of Malfoy's tongue against the length of his shaft sends a ripple of excitement over Harry's body. When Malfoy takes the head in his mouth and gently sucks, one word, one singularly perfect word, forms in Harry's mind.

Using the wand, Harry draws the letters over the palm of his hand. A split second later Malfoy sits up and pulls his hand from the base of Harry's cock.

In messy black scrawl is the word _**yes**_.

"Are you okay?" Harry asks.

"No wonder you like it," Malfoy replies with wide eyes and an even wider smile.

It is both relief and exhilaration, when Malfoy resumes the blowjob. It's Harry's first time and he's quite certain he will never forget the way Malfoy is looking up at him through the long blond hair falling in front of his face, his mouth wet and pink stretched around his cock, raw need blazing in his eyes.

Harry's a puddle of sensations and he can't keep any coherent thought in his mind. There is only Malfoy, his hot mouth, and his want. Malfoy wants him. Harry comes for the second time that night, but he's sure it won't be the last. There is much to explore about Malfoy, the wand, and the writing. Harry intends to make a thorough job of it and he's quite certain Malfoy will agree.

Harry grasps the wand firmly in his hand and writes another message, this time across his inner thigh. Shivering as if overcome by the sensation, Malfoy sucks in a deep breath and examines his skin.

 _I love magic._

 

***The End (for now at least)***

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Power of Words by Rickey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/902023) by [fire_juggler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fire_juggler/pseuds/fire_juggler)




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